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That truth causes Rio a pang of regret, a feeling almost like jealousy. Mackie with a whole new barracks full of gawky, awkward, ridiculous recruits, one of whom will be sleeping in Rio’s bunk.
With the dishes done, Rio heads out to the porch. It is unbelievable luxury to have time to slowly digest dinner without needing to study a manual or shine her boots or sew her uniform. At the same time, how strange not to have Cat tossing off some bit of poetry she’s just made up, or Tilo doing his Frank Sinatra impression. Jenou is just across town, staying
with her aunt, not her parents, for reasons Jenou has not explained. But the rest of the old crowd are spread here and there, slated to reunite in New York City.
New York City! The very thought is thrilling. New York City and then the slow boat to England. So long as a German U-boat doesn’t spot their convoy.
Rio’s father is on the porch, a cigarette in his mouth, gazing off toward the sun setting behind the church steeple. Rio noticed that he drank two beers with his dinner, not his usual one, and now he’s holding a glass of brandy with the bottle near at hand but discreetly out of sight behind a potted plant.
She senses that he is nerving himself up for what he has to say. She feels him tense when she joins him. He seems at first to regret the brandy in his hand, but then takes a healthy swig. He sets the glass aside, pulls a pack of Luckies from his shirt pocket, and holds it toward her.
“Have you picked up the habit yet?”
“No thanks. Some of the guys have, but not me.”
“Not yet,” he says darkly. “Before you’re done you’ll be smoking and drinking too.” He immediately shakes his head in regret. “Listen, I, uh . . .”
“Yes, Dad?”
He sighs, takes a drag off his cigarette, and exhales a cloud. “Listen, sweetheart. Don’t be a hero.”
Rio smiles. “I wasn’t planning on it.”
“No, listen to me.” There is urgency in his tone. He insists she listen. He insists that what he knows she must know as well. “If they actually go through with this hare-brained notion and send you into the fighting, there will come a time when you’ll have a choice between staying in your trench and crawling out of it to save a buddy. Or maybe you’ll have had enough of getting shelled and decide you just have to run out there and shoot someone. That’s what I mean. When that moment comes, you stay down. You keep your head down. You hug the ground.”
She has the terrible feeling that his eyes might be filling with tears, but that’s impossible, surely. She looks away.
He is seeing something in memory, playing it over again. He winces, swallows hard, and takes another puff and then a drink.
“Don’t listen to your officers, listen to your noncoms. It’s the sergeants that keep their men alive, the good ones, anyway. You find a sergeant you trust and stick to him like glue. An officer will throw your life away for nothing, but a good sergeant . . .”
“Yes, sir,” she says, not even realizing that she’s fallen into the military style of address, nor that she is standing at something like parade rest that is not quite attention, but not the casual stance of a teenage girl talking with her father either.
“I’m your father. That’s your mother in there,” he says, his voice gone rough. “We’re your family. Whatever happens, we’re your family. Whatever happens, this is your place, this house, this town.”
He is seeing the Stamp Man too, she knows. And perhaps seeing much more.
“I know that, sir,” she says.
“You’ll need that.” He nods to himself. “You’ll need to know that. When you’re scared. Or hurt. No matter what: we are your family.”
Rio can’t answer. This is as open as her father has ever been with her, the first time he has ever addressed her as an adult. This is him baring his soul within the limits his notions of masculinity allow. A tear rolls down her cheek, but she can’t wipe at it without giving herself away.
“You’ll need that,” he says again, almost a whisper.
The doorbell rings at 0900 sharp.
“Strand!”
“It’s too early, isn’t it?” he asks.
He seems taller than she remembers, and his shoulders are definitely wider and stronger. But then, she supposes, she looks more muscular to him as well, and it makes her cringe a little.
“Not too early at all, Strand.”
“I figured you woke up at, what, 0700?”
“Nonsense. I woke up at 0600—I’m real army, not air corps,” she teases. “You know, in the real army we don’t even have butlers to bring us our coffee in bed every morning.”
